


Never Gonna Love Again

by flungoutofspace



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, F/F, it's pain city when you play lykke li after midnight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 14:43:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15536526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flungoutofspace/pseuds/flungoutofspace
Summary: Work and time puts stress on their relationship. Ultimately, years after the blight, duty drives them apart: Leliana devotes herself to her Chantry, Mahariel leaves to find her Calling.





	Never Gonna Love Again

* * *

 

**9:37-9:41 Dragon**

* * *

 

Mahariel still writes to her sometimes. That is what hurts perhaps the most. Months may pass by – once even a full year – without word, and Leliana thinks herself safe, manages to push the pain and memories away below piles and piles of work. There is always work to be done in Justinia’s name. But then an inconspicuous letter will arrive, sometimes signed with a simple initial, other times accompanied by some find from a strange distant land, and Leliana finds herself sobbing, utterly alone in a city of thousands.

She has found ways to stifle the pain. Work isn’t always readily available or taxing enough, so she overcomplicates things. Works in the field. Delves into old rumors and feuds. Sometimes prayer works – Cassandra has always told her of the wonders of her Seeker’s Vigil, and Leliana can lock herself into a Chantry prayer room for days on end, the Chant her only sustenance.

Other times, the whip does the trick.

Flagellation is neither outlawed nor praised by the Chantry, and frankly rather verges on obscure ritual and extremism these days, but it serves its goal. She wonders what Mahariel would say, should she see the silvery scars on Leliana’s back. She wonders how it would feel, should she trace her fingers across them, her eyes swimming with pity and regret and-

Leliana has half a heart to take out the whip before she’s even opened the letter. It lies innocently on her desk amongst a small pile of other messages – a note from Charter, who’ll want new instructions soon; surveillance updates from other agents, small requests. She’d recognized the handwriting as soon as she’d opened the scroll, recoiling as though she’d dipped her hand in acid. How childish that she can barely approach her desk now. There is no snake coiled on that table.

She grits her teeth and marches forward, determined to read the letter without any slip of emotion. Mahariel must know how much it hurts Leliana to receive these letters, and though she isn’t here to see it, she vows will not give her the satisfaction of breaking down entirely. Not this time.

 _It’s time to grow up, little bird_. The voice in the back of her head is Marjolaine’s.

When she fully unrolls the scroll, a few wisps of paper tumble out. Leliana bends down to pick them up, and upon closer inspection, sees it is not paper after all. They are dried flowers.

 _Andraste’s Grace_ , writes Mahariel, _the last flowers of the season, they grow abundantly in the mountain passes_ , and Leliana screams, swings her arms wide in blind frustration. When several bottles and other curiosities go flying, a full decanter of some Antivan wine flung into the hearth with a crash and a burst of fire, she feels a hint of bitter satisfaction. But that damned letter is still on her desk, _taunting_ her, and she begins to tear her hood and armor off with impatient hands, struggling to breathe.

She does not remember what she’s done until the next morning, waking with a headache hammering in her head, near-blind to the sunlight. A runner comes by and sheepishly asks if she’s feeling better than last night, tells her it’ll be hard to send a message to such distant, hostile lands, but that there’s agents even there who will see it done. He pretends not to see Leliana’s blank stare dissipate when she remembers the letter’s contents, and he leaves in a hurry, flushed red.

Leliana sinks against a bookcase, her prized Fereldan rug ticklish under her palms as she presses down hard, as if there is a solidity there she can adopt.

 _Come home_ , she remembers, eyes closed, tasting bile in the back of her throat and salt on her lips. _I love you, I love you, I love you. Come home._

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure how much I can/will update, but here is a snippet of angst. In this scenario, Mahariel and Leliana tried living together best they could, meeting up in Orlais, but eventually Mahariel gets the scares and breaks things off with Leliana. Find a cure for the Calling is much more an excuse to run away before Leliana can see her love turn tainted.


End file.
